Unlock My Heart (NOLA Mobsters #2)

Prologue

Sienna

Nineteen-years-old

“We’re outside the courthouse where a prominent local businessman’s son will be making his appearance. Fabien Calvani is expected to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter in connection with the deadly shooting inside the famous jazz lounge of Hotel D’Amico.”

Feelings that I’ve worked too damn hard to bury are trying to claw their way to the surface, and so I turn off the television. But like a siren’s song enticing me to thrash myself against the rocks, I find myself digging through the closet and breaking out the designer shoe box.

Dumping the box upside down, the sealed letters tumble out, and I arrange them on my thrifted coffee table based on the envelopes’ postmarked dates.

A part of me desperately wants to open them. To read his pitiful excuses; to soothe my tattered soul with his sweet-sounding lies. But as with my feelings, I sweep the letters back inside the box, closing the lid tight.

My phone is now in hand, and I examine the message that I left on read.

Go to dinner with me, bellissima. I’ll send a car to pick you up at seven.

Michele’s motives are as transparent as glass. I’m a conquest. A trophy. A shiny toy stolen from Fabien.

And my motives are nearly as see-through. Fabien will get word that I went on a date with his capo, and it’ll get under his skin. Not because Fabian loves me; I’ve disabused myself of that silly notion. No, but because it’ll hit him where it hurts the most: his big, fat Calvani ego.

My thumbs fly over the keyboard.

I’m looking forward to it.

My heart races as the town car pulls up to Hotel D’Amico. Michele appears, opening the car door for me and helping me out. “Stunning as always, Sienna.” He presses a kiss on the top of my hand.

I’ve never been able to put my finger on it, but something about Michele has always made me feel a bit uncomfortable. But as the reigning queen of burying my feelings, I do just that, flashing a flirtatious smile. “Thank you, Michele. Where are we dining this evening?”

Please say anywhere other than here.

“I’ve closed the lounge for the two of us,” he says suggestively.

An uncomfortable feeling licks at my spine as we enter the lounge, and he escorts me to the same table where Fabien shattered my heart.

My stomach drops like lead, but I say nonchalantly, “Interesting choice.”

“The best seat in the house.” Michele pulls out my chair for me, and I sit. Scooting his chair closer, he sits, placing a proprietary hand on my thigh.

“I’m not having sex with you, Michele,” I warn him, shifting my leg away from his hold. “After the Fabien situation, I vowed to save myself for marriage.” A bald-faced lie; I’m just not interested in fucking this man.

“Then marry me.”

The proposal nearly knocks me out of my chair. “Didn’t your wife of twenty years recently pass away?” It’s a question I already know the answer to.

“She did, God rest her soul.” With a somber face, he makes the sign of the cross. “And I’ve learned this life isn’t promised, and to grab onto happiness while you can. I’ve always wanted you, Sienna. Marry me. Fabien isn’t here to take care of you. I am.”

Michele touches my cheek, and while I don’t lean into his touch, I don’t recoil, either. The days of me being a love-struck fool are over.

“I’ll think about it,” I tell him honestly.

Stepping off the trolley, I make my way through the Garden District as I mull over Michele’s proposal.

Sienna D’Amico.

Admittedly, the name doesn’t have a terrible ring to it.

My face twists into a grimace as I spot the Calvani family mansion looming ahead, and I cross the street out of sheer principle.

A cute little dog being walked on a leash perks up my mood. “Hey, puppy,” I call, and the dog and owner pause as I hold out my hand, the dog giving it a sniff. I smile, giving its head a scratch.

My smile fades when I spot the sign announcing the upcoming NOSAD spring fashion show.

Things go from bad to worse when I arrive at my therapist’s office. A feral cat is blocking the lobby entrance. It’s doing nothing nefarious, other than choosing this particular spot to groom. But my palms become sweaty as the cat rises and stretches its back, sauntering to the alley.

The alley.

My dress soaked from the rain.

A cat startling me.

My body freezes as fear wraps its cold hand around my throat.

I can’t breathe.

My head spins as I try to swallow a breath, but the more I try, the more oxygen eludes me. My heart pounds wildly as panic cripples me.

This is a panic attack. I’m right here in the now, not back then in the alley…

My body slides against the wall until my ass hits the pavement. I tuck my head between my knees, mentally repeating my mantra over and over.

This is a panic attack. I’m right here in the now, not back then in the alley…

Deep, long breaths. In and out slowly. Like a wave cresting, the panic eventually recedes, and I open my eyes.

A deliveryman steps outside, hesitating. “Miss, are you okay?”

Embarrassment colors my cheeks as I scramble to my feet. “There was a cat…” I trail off because it sounds silly as hell. “It freaked me out,” I finish anyway. He holds open the door, and I tell him sheepishly, “Thanks,” as I enter the building.

Reaching my therapist’s office, a wave of exhaustion washes over me. God, I’ve already been through the emotional wringer, and the appointment hasn’t even begun. I plop down in the waiting room chair, my head falling into my hands.

“Sienna,” she calls, opening her inner office door, and I’m ushered inside.

“How are you?” My therapist takes a seat across from me with a notepad and pen ready.

“Drained. I just had a panic attack outside the building. All because of a freaking cat.” I rifle through my bag, finding my water bottle and taking a big gulp.

“It makes sense a cat would trigger you,” she says gently. “Tell me about this panic attack.”

After I recap what just went down, she comments, “It’s major progress you were able to identify the panic attack in the moment and apply your tools. You should be proud of yourself.”

My throat constricts. Fabien was the only other person in my life to tell me that he was proud of me.

“Thanks,” I mutter, changing the subject. “Oh, I got a marriage proposal.”

“My, that is big news,” she comments.

I nod, crossing my legs. “Michele proposed. It would make sense financially.”

“Would it make sense romantically?” she presses.

“Romance is for fools,” I tell her dismissively. “My savings are dwindling, and I need a long-term plan.”

“What about returning to school? It was understandable that you needed time after everything you’ve been through,” she says gently, and I swallow an uncomfortable lump in my throat. “Have you considered reapplying?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have the money.” Or the drive. Or the passion. Or the creativity. A naive girl once thought nothing could derail her dreams. She had no idea what a huge train wreck her life was going to become.

“What about student aid?”

With a heavy sigh, I explain, “You have to be twenty-four to apply without your parents’ information. I don’t have my parents’ information. Trust me, I’ve been down that road before.”

“And there’s no other option? Besides marriage?”

A tiny chip in the nail polish of my right index finger snags my attention. So annoying when that happens right after a manicure. “Being a fashion designer was a pipe dream. I’m better off settling for financial security.”

“I see,” she says, writing something down.

“What did you write down?” I lean forward, trying to read her upside-down handwriting.

“Sienna, these are my notes,” she chides, shifting her papers.

Arms crossed, I fall back in my chair. “You wrote down, ‘Client is jaded.’”

“Do you think you’re jaded?” she counters.

“Of course I’m jaded! My life is one big daisy chain of traumas!”

“Would marrying this man help end the trauma cycle, or add another flower to the chain?”

“I don’t know.” Blowing out a heavy breath, I admit quietly, “A part of me wants to marry Michele for revenge. To punish my ex.”

“That’s an understandable reaction,” she says gently, writing something down. Probably underlining the Client is jaded notation. “There’s a proverb about revenge, and I’m paraphrasing, but if that’s the path you choose, go ahead and dig two graves.”

“Sorry, I don’t get it,” I admit.

“That’s our time. Maybe you can journal about the meaning between now and next week.”

I make my way to the trolley stop, lost in thought.

Go ahead and dig two graves…

Two graves? Don’t sell me short. More like an entire cemetery, and for that many bodies, I’d need a backhoe. Or is it a front loader? Maybe an excavator? I don’t know; you’d think the mob would be into construction, and not selling ice and breaking hearts…

“Ms. Jenkins?” A man in his mid-twenties dressed in a designer suit appears from the alley, and I startle.

My body’s on high alert as I reach into my bag, my fingers brushing the taser I now carry with me at all times. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

He holds up his hands in a non-threatening manner. “I’m Fabien Calvani’s attorney—”

“Congratulations,” I interject. “Whatever your hourly rate is, double it.” My feet take me swiftly in the opposite direction.

“Ms. Jenkins, wait.” He chases me down. “I’m to escort you to prison so you can speak to Mr. Calvani in person.”

“Why would I want to do that?” I drawl, attempting to hide the warring emotions.

Anger. Pain. Curiosity. Hope.

Hope.

What a lying bitch of an emotion she is.

“Mr. Calvani has a business proposition for you.”

Keeping my face neutral, I mask my confusion. “What kind of business proposition?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. Mr. Calvani gave me strict instructions.”

Ignoring the fluttering of my heart, I lift a shoulder. “Alright, I’ll bite. But I expect to be compensated for your boss wasting my time.”

“Mr. Calvani knew you’d say that.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands me a thick envelope.

A peek inside reveals a nice stack of hundreds. “Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. But tell Fabien thanks for the parting gift.” Dropping the cash in my bag, I take off.